


To Those Who Wait

by allyoops



Category: Original Work
Genre: Americana, Debauchery, F/M, Genial misogyny, Historical, Loss of Virginity, Object Insertion, Pussy Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:00:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23588029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allyoops/pseuds/allyoops
Summary: It's easy enough to ride the rails to parts unknown, disembark for an afternoon's self-indulgence and flee before the townsfolk discover how many sadder and wiser girls a fellow has left in his wake.But what's a man to do when he is known and respected about town and wishes to stay that way, even after introducing the lovely little neighbor girl to all the wickeder ways of the world?
Relationships: Jovial upstanding citizen of quaint turn-of-century American town/Virginal teen neighbor he coerces
Comments: 8
Kudos: 166
Collections: Smut 4 Smut 2020





	To Those Who Wait

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nonnymouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonnymouse/gifts).



Betty Callendar was a fine figure of a girl. Someday soon she would be a fine figure of a woman, but as yet, with her hair down her back in artless curls and her rosy cheeks still babyfat-full, her stays still a brief cotton afterthought beneath layers of virgin cotton eyelet lace, she could not lay claim to full womanhood.

And that suited Emerson Watts to the ground.

Modern girls were boorish and brash. Every man was ready to say so. Some said it with a wink and a finger laid knowingly alongside the nose, the better to arouse a knowing chuckle in their audience, but Emerson Watts did not socialize with such men. No, he held social counsel with men like Betty's father. John Callendar was all things a gentleman should be: educated, sober, and employed in a profession which demanded enough brains that his education should not be wasted, but not so many that would give any cause to doubt the natural virility of his person.

John Callendar had taken for his bride a softspoken and uncomplaining lady who managed the running of their elegant home with exacting taste and agreeable dispassion. Their four children were always well turned out, and it gave Emerson Watts a certain pleasure to raise his hat when he met Mrs. John Callendar in the street. She would always incline her carefully-dressed head what seemed to him to be exactly the correct degree, so that her hat brim shaded her face, and murmur “good day, Mr. Watts,” in tonelessly pleasant accents.

The woman had practically no personality at all, and Emerson Watts found her soothing.

Betty, on the other hand, did not soothe him. To the contrary she aroused him to a manner of passion that he usually took particular care to keep hidden when close to home. She was not wont to gambol, whoop or go off into peals of shrieking laughter, as some girls of her age might be inclined to do, but she did blush and dimple most adorably when Emerson Watts would lift his hat. He found it particularly alluring that she lacked the knowing poise of her mother. In fact, when Emerson Watts would wish Betty a good day, he thought she looked like she did not know exactly what she wanted to do.

Which was fine, because Mr. Watts was quite certain enough for both of them what he wished to do to her.

Emerson had known for the better part of three years that he intended to take upon himself the role of Betty's ruiner. These days the problem of how best to go about it occupied much of his waking time. The greatest and most enduring obstacle was that Emerson had his position in town to consider. These were not the rural parts, the sleepy railroad towns of the Midwest or any of the other venues he occasionally took himself away to when the urge came upon him. One might easily play the part of a brash, cheap-suited traveling man passing through a town where none would know his name. One in that guise could step off a train at midmorning to find a likely looking maid, take any number of untried girls onto his lap and introduce them as rudely as he liked to the ways of the world. He would be gone before the noonhour, or at least before the girl gathered wits enough to scream, and get away home none the worse for it. But here, in his own respectable town, with his own name so well known to the object of his desire and, more importantly, to her parents and their friends alike, he would need to be infinitely more circumspect.

It was times like these that Emerson cursed his lack of aptitude for the biological sciences. He might have gone into medicine and made free with any number of girls Betty's age, if he'd only had the knack. Instead he had pursued business, and while he had done well enough to establish as his address the fine Italianate house arranged on a generous plot of shady suburban lawn, directly beside that of the Callendar family, he did not find the travails of commerce gave plausible excuse to investigate the unexplored kingdom that girls like Betty Callendar kept so demurely tucked beneath their skirts.

So a more designing plan would need to be laid, and Emerson kept himself fully occupied with the laying of it.

Luring the girl away was not the difficulty. The act of summoning her, if only he were able to get her alone, would be simplicity itself. She was thoroughly unspoiled, charming in her naivete, and would doubtless come at once when beckoned. The real trick would be first to find her unguarded, then to keep her in any one place long enough to make agreeable use of her, and at last to win her silence thereafter.

This three-pronged dilemma had been for too long the master of him. Securing her position long enough to get under her skirts might be accomplished with might and menace, but to also secure her silence with threats seemed an unlikely path to success. True, the idea of those clear blue eyes widening in adorable, feminine fright in the face of his masculine bluster did arouse his interest, but once she was clear of his power he imagined the sheer terror of her experience would drive her directly home to tell all, as one could only expect a good and gently-reared girl would do. And all of that was moot to begin with, since Betty had the kind of good and careful parents who did not permit her schedule to boast of time spent unsupervised outside the safety of the home. His access to her, absent the interfering company of family or friends in some quantity, was a foregone failure. No, to secure the ruination of Betty in such a manner that it would not be immediately pursued by his own was not the kind of thing that could be worked out in the space of one afternoon, or even a dozen..

The problem, as a consequence, occupied a goodly portion of his leisure hours. He observed Betty whenever tact and circumstances would permit, which meant he encountered her most regularly on her walk to school. She usually fell into step with two other girls from their street, school friends of about the same age, and they would link arms quite charmingly in preparation for the journey. There was no opportunity here to commandeer her exclusive company, nor was the hour of her return from school fraught with promise either. She and her chums would return in unity, usually more boisterous and gay than they had been in the morning, brimming with spirits too high for the looming threat of womanly maturity to overshadow them at such an hour, when the sun was yet warm and golden, and the promise of a few hours' leisurely merriment beckoned them into the back gardens to chatter.

Great was Emerson's fortune on this front, however, for the window of his own dressing room afforded a generous view of the Callendar garden. He would on occasion retreat to this room and observe Betty at his leisure, the golden crown of her head flashing in the afternoon light as she leaned first to one friend, then the next, the better to marshal their allegiances.

She was quite unaffected still, not coquettish in any way, and it pleased him to imagine her wholly uninitiated in the ways of men and women. It was, he surmised, a vain hope—children these days were not, indeed, at all ignorant of such sport—but the notion of her shock when the education was forced on her was nevertheless deeply pleasurable to him.

Her eyes would widen, and her mouth also. He gave himself over to the picture that sprang to his mind's eye, and almost without intending it, he unbuttoned the front trap of his trousers and caught his stiffening cock in hand.

The idea of how she would receive this specimen of virility awoke his lust to greater measure. Looking out the window, staring down into her garden at the sight of the demure little figure flanked by her two companions, he imagined himself advancing on her in perfect privacy. She would protest her horror, her unpreparedness, but he would soon make known to her who was master of the situation. And then . . .

The thought of her squeals as he invaded her brought him to shuddering release.

* * *

Spring that year was unusually warm, which phenomenon Emerson attributed to his mounting, increasingly feverish obsession with solving the dilemma once and for all. By mid April the dilemma gained such prominence in his thoughts that he gave himself over entirely to pursuing its solution. He publicly credited the unseasonable heat with his desire to retire early from the office, and adjusted the schedules of his office staff accordingly. Then he rearranged his own obligations to ensure he could always be home by the time Betty returned from school.

For some weeks thereafter he twice daily enjoyed the sight of her traipsing along the gray boards of the sidewalk, skirts nearly unsullied by the dust of the road, always caught in merry conference with her friends. So intimate with their schedule did he become that he was usually able to time his departure and approach to ensure that they met in passing, and would often take the opportunity to lift his hat in greeting, which adult gesture of masculine deference never failed to provoke his quarry to dimples and giggles. 

One of her school friends, he learned, was called Susan, a very placid, uncomplaining sort. Her broad, Germanic face spoke of no particular intelligence, but her affection for Betty was quite uncompromising in its devotion, and he thought he liked her very much for it. The notion to introduce Susan to the ways of the world did not once occur to Emerson. Susan was not the type a man thought of introducing to anything but his mother. She had no spark in her, no lively twinkle he longed to kindle to shock and fear, and her form, truth be told, was quite uninspiring in a girl of any age. Square, stolid, and bound for unremarkable housewifery of the most constant and respectable sort was Susan.

The other chum was of a different type. Florence had thick, dark hair and lively violet eyes that he had no doubt she knew were her best feature. She was prone to flutter the lashes of them at every boy who so much as looked sideways at her, and Emerson had no doubt that it would not be long before several somebodies undertook to introduce Florence to all the ways of the world, and make her adept at knowing her place in it. Only the girl's family, he thought, would save her from the natural outcome of her coquetry. He could not think she was a very seemly friend for Betty, except that Betty's own unspoilt girlishness showed up all the more naturally in contrast, which did please him.

Ah, well. He was not Betty's father, and it was not his place to mind her companions, except that they remained a most vexing shield against possible impropriety when he made such invariable point of greeting all three of them by raising his hat when they met in the street. At the sight of his greeting Betty would giggle, Florence would toss her head and flash her eyes, and Susan would smile the sort of bland, polite smile that Mrs. Callendar herself was wont to produce under the same circumstances. And so it went, until the day when he was on his way home from the office for his lunch and marked Florence and Susan coming down the street, walking in quite the wrong direction for a homecoming and at entirely the wrong hour, with no Betty in their company.

This was strange. He completed his crossing of the street and paused at the corner, appearing to affect a dusting-off of his trousers, while in truth thinking furiously.

Had the girl been taken ill? Had her friends elected to walk her home? He had surely seen her this morning en route to the school. Yes, he had made some comment about the blue in her sash being very robin's egg in nature, and suited to the advancing spring. So where was she?

Calculating that a polite inquiry would not provoke overmuch comment if made in the right tone, he adjusted his pace and soon came broadside of the girls in their walk.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” he said, and lifted the hat in his usual fashion. “If indeed one may say so, at . . .” he paused to glance ostentatiously at his pocket watch, “a quarter of twelve. My goodness! Much earlier than the usual happy hour when we meet. Ah, but perhaps you are rushing off to luncheon. Young ladies, I am told, are famously fond of a luncheon.”

And here he cast a friendly gaze over them, tucking his pocket watch back in its place and beaming with all the warmth of the sun itself. The girls responded in kind, but he couldn’t help notice that, without Betty's giggle to brighten their response, Florence's flirtatious toss of the head and Susan's polite acknowledgement made them look rather more in the line of a dowager matron and her headstrong charge than anything like friends of an age.

“But here,” he said, as though only now marking her absence, “where is your third vertex, hey? The happy trio is a duo! What robs you of the happy company of your friend? Not unwell, I hope?”

“Oh!” Florence cast a doubtful look at Susan, whose greater propriety of spirit had clearly prevented her from even considering response. “Oh, no. That is, she is not exactly ill, but—” She hesitated over her explanation, then stumbled, and Emerson noted with quickening interest that Susan, that stout little soul, his Betty's worthiest and most loyal friend, had undertook to employ the arm Florence had looped through hers to drag that imprudent tongue-wag along home in her wake.

“Susan!” Florence scolded. “Don't pull me so!”

But Susan, bullheaded and unimaginative, had set on her course of action and could not be dissuaded. She surged on and Florence, though taller, was quite the slighter and slimmer of the two, and so had little weight to bring to bear on the silent argument. She was toted along as Susan intended, and Emerson could not deny it gave him some satisfaction to see the one chit so thoroughly routed by the other.

That still left, however, the question of Betty. What had become of her?

The problem consumed him as he mounted the steps. Not exactly ill, Florence had said. Well! What good did such feminine discretion do him? Though Florence was not, by nature, discreet. No, she was coy. So that she had been about to share this with him at all meant it was the sort of ailment which might conceivably be spoken aloud in public, or at least tactfully alluded to, thereby neatly ruling out a few of the least mentionable feminine complaints and leaving only those which a girl of some stature might prefer others not know of.

A trifling with her heart, perhaps? A callous lad who stole a kiss, and left her in ruinous tears, incapable of completing the remainder of her day’s studies. Or some truly minor health complaint which could be tactfully referenced to a courteous male neighbor without causing undue damage to Florence's concept of modesty.

As he mulled over the possibilities, Emerson mounted the stairs and retired to his dressing room at the side of the house, intending to freshen himself from the dusty walk home. Instead, his attention as arrested by a most unexpected sight beyond the glass.

Betty Callendar, in her own back yard, was stretched out beneath the shade of a benevolent lilac bush. She lay face down upon a decorative iron bench, a book in her hands.

What was this? His Betty, truant? No, Emerson would never believe it. Yet there she lay, already home, and arranged in such a posture as to suggest she had settled herself in for some duration. Emerson peered down in fascination, attempting to discern, from her dress and arrangement, an answer to this novel problem. Not home sick, if she were basking in this manner under the late noonday sun. Her mother would never have stood for it. But if not unwell . . .

Even as Emerson mulled the problem over, Betty looked up from her book and put her golden head at a charming angle, stretched her arms out in a sweetly natural manner, and then rolled herself with contrastingly peculiar stiffness off the bench, and onto her feet. There she stood a moment, stretching, before awkwardly shuffling back to her place of repose and lying face downward, book in hands, once more.

It was this unlikely arthritic maneuver which brought the truth home to Emerson with resounding clarity. Of course! Many a time in his youth had he observed a lad navigate the walk home with that awkward, stiffened gait: the schoolmaster’s wrath at the dealer’s end of the switch could not be mistook.

His Betty had been birched. And that her friends seemed to know of it meant it was not her father's hand which had wielded the rod of authority, but that of an educator.

What manner of offense she might have committed to be so afflicted, he could hardly imagine. Some flippant remark, perhaps, aimed at a mistress with less than the usual debt of humor? Or academic indiscretion, such as could only be expected of a girl not excessively burdened with intellect, but desirous of bringing a pleasing report home from an examination. Whatever the offense, it must not have been so great as to confine her to the punishment of her bedchamber . . . unless . . .

A new suspicion dawned on Emerson as he marked the firm closure of the kitchen door, in contrast to the gentle creak of the garden gate which stood ajar. And there, by the bench—her school books, still bound with the telltale strap. She had not even been inside the house to put them away, but must have freed one from the stack and arranged herself with it on the bench.

Had the remarkable girl actually sneaked home by the back lane, and undertaken to conceal herself in the garden beyond the witness of her parents? It would be quite a likely, childish gambit, such as he himself might have contrived at her age. One punishment, after all, was painful enough: why open oneself to the further censure of parental wrath by reporting the righteous attack of a teacher?

If this were so, the girl was like as not quite intent on concealing her presence in the garden from all in the house. No doubt she could be induced to silence with relative ease, under the circumstances.

Well! This was news indeed, and Emerson did not fail to see how he could turn it to his advantage. The girl’s father was not yet home, of this he was confident. As to the mother . . . He cast a thoughtful look at the clock. There was no chance she would still be about the morning shopping. Ordering of fripperies and gewgaws, though he had only the haziest notion of the actual intricacies of the task, never occupied Mrs. John Callendar beyond the hour of his own early return from the office. She might, however, quite conceivably have undertaken to pay her social calls, as it seemed unlikely Betty would have risked remaining in the garden if there were any great chance of her being observed. And if that were the case, Emerson thought, he could probably be assured of a conservative forty minutes’ private grace with the girl, and a more generous hour if fate were particularly kind, and the Callendar servants slow to start the supper.

This, then, was the first hurdle cleared! She was entirely alone, and he had the gift of time in which to slake his desire for her at last. The second hurdle, well, he did not mind keeping her pinned by brute force. She was not likely to prove a physical match for him, and the thought of her failing to fight him off brought him much pleasure to contemplate. But the third hurdle yet remained, and he did not like the risk of trusting entirely to Betty’s discretion purely on the strength of her desire that none in the house know of her truancy. There were some indignities a girl might like even less than a second birching, and Emerson was very much of the mind to visit one such upon her, so he thought it best to take some additional precautions against his own ruination, even as he prepared to advance the plan for hers.

With alacrity, he ducked back into his wardrobe and took from it some particular pieces of clothing he used when it suited him to travel abroad by train, and make the most of the girls he could find in towns quite far from this. A cheap suit of clothes, loud in its pattern of plaid, and a cheap shirt that was shiny on the front and paired with a cheap, stiff collar. The whole arrangement was finished with a deplorably soft, floppy tie and a domed brown bowler, and all items were laid out for his readiness. Then he clattered down the stairs with a show of loud annoyance, and called for his housekeeper.

“Mrs. Towser! Mrs Towser, how do you like the effrontery of those fellows? A man by my own front gate, having the nerve to try to sell me some manner of tobacco or smoking contraption—as though respectable people ever bought something out of a suitcase! I ask you, what is the country coming to?”

Mrs. Towser, irritated to be called from her most cherished pastime of yelling at the kitchen maid, nevertheless rallied and agreed that it was not seemly for a gentleman to be so accosted.

“You make sure Jim waits out by the front gate a while, Mrs. Towser,” he advised. “Tell him I want him to stay there, for he is to run the man off again, if he is seen. And mind you keep well out of the back garden this afternoon, and the girls as well. I won’t have this fellow bothering my household, do you hear?”

Mrs. Towser offered her thanks for the kind consideration of her employer, and went to relay the appropriate orders. Emerson, much pleased with his little fiction, trotted back up the stairs to assemble the persona he adopted for such exploits. Then he ducked back down to the library, where he let himself out the French window at the side and skulked along the back fence, keeping the heaviest part of the shrubbery between himself and the house until he was able to let himself out the back gate.

The lane which ran behind the houses, little more than a cart-track trodden down by tradespeople who could not be admitted at the front door, was quite uninhabited at this hour. Lunch refuse had already been deposited in the appropriate slops, and except for the odd cat picking about the hedgerows, he was unlikely to be observed in his quest.

The Callendars’ garden gate was a trim affair of white picket, freshly painted and its hinges nicely oiled. It made no squeak at all as he entered, and his footfalls on the lush new growth of the lawn were entirely undetected by Betty.

His Betty! Or soon would be, at long last.

She was a vision as she lay there on the bench, her booted feet tucked up over her back, swinging lightly in the air. He advanced on her unsuspecting form with agonizingly pleasant leisure, wanting to savor the moment of his approach, of his nearing triumph, as long as he dared. How long had he wished for this day? He hearkened back fondly to the winter's eve some few years before, when he had observed her traipsing home through the snow, all flushed and rosy and so very nearly ready and ripe. He had determined then that he would be the man to pluck her, and here at last, patience rewarded, he was within a stone's throw of his unsuspecting prize.

His eyes rested fondly on the gentle swell of her bottom, demurely covered with the ruffles of her skirt. There was an endearing near-immodesty to the pose, but of course the skirt kept her virtue guarded, for the moment. He would soon put that to rights, of course, but in the meantime, how her poor backside must be flaming!

Consumed by the desire to observe it for himself, Emerson cast about the place and settled on a welcome sight: the kitchen lunch refuse, neatly bundled by the garden gate, included a pair of glass bottles. They were the kind in which Coca Cola was sometimes sold, although these looked more likely to have held an offering of some unnamed drugstore concoction instead. One of the two bottles he caught up in his hand, and advanced on Betty with purpose.

She did not even have a chance to turn around before he was on her. The round mouth of the bottle he pressed against the back of her neck, and his free hand he used to catch her roughly around the mouth before the squeal that burst from her could rise to full shriek.

“Quiet, now,” he said gruffly, in a voice much lower and raspier than the toneless accents with which he greeted her daily. “Do you feel this, little lady? It’s a six-shooter. You know what that means?”

Poor Betty was seized all over with affirmative trembles. Emerson grunted his approval.

“Well then. If you will be a clever girl, and keep quiet, I will not have to use it on you. I should hate to shoot a pretty girl, but I won’t hesitate to do what I must if you think to raise an alarm. Understand?”

She nodded miserably, poor creature, and he felt her tears wetting the back of his hand.

“Good girl,” he said, thinking Betty could probably do with a bit of praise, after the morning she’d had. “Now, I am going to set my gun to the side, but it is well within reach, so do nothing rash. I will not trouble you for long.”

That much, at least, seemed likely to be true. Already the nearness of the thing he had so long sought had brought him to painful arousal. He strained mightily at the button of his trousers, and with an almost audible groan of relief, Emerson Watts at last freed the front panel to let his cock stand free in the presence of Betty Callendar.

It was a pity, of course, that he could not behold her shock at the sight of it, but he had imagined that part so many times that he was able to content himself by lifting the skirt of her school dress instead. Her drawers he did not wait long to pull down, and there, oh! What a glorious sight awaited.

Betty had, indeed, been soundly birched, and small wonder she had needed to repose on her tummy, the better to relieve the dreadful heat of the scarlet stripes that showed up in perfect clarity against the otherwise unmolested flesh of her bottom.

Her bottom itself was as round and plump as he could ever have wished, and he would have stopped to take the sight in properly except that Betty, at feeling him raise her dress and bare her arse, had begun to whirl around in instinctive protest, so he was forced to drop her skirt and catch her by the nape of the neck. He gave her a shake, as one does a kitten by its scruff, and caught up the bottle to press it once more to the back of her head.

“This would make a pretty mess of you, my girl, if you dared to resist again. You will lie as still and pretty as a pond in good weather, and not trouble me when I take what I have come for. Are we quite clear?”

“Y-yes,” whimpered poor Betty, and her charming economy of speech made him groan in her ear.

“Good girl,” he whispered. “Now, let’s see if you can hold your tongue as a lady ought.”

So saying, he caught her not ungently by the knees and eased her down off the bench onto the lawn. The posture he arranged her in was nearly like that of a maiden at prayer, only a trifle more lewd. Her tummy was still supported by the backless garden bench, her knees resting just lightly on the grass, and her dear, adorable hindparts which had already suffered such abuse today pointed directly at him in preparation for even more of the same.

In this manner was Emerson at last able to behold the cunt of Betty Callendar, and he rejoiced at the sight.

Oh, what a perfect and unplundered little peach it was! The plumpest, pinkest outer lips he ever could have hoped for. True, the little treasure was fuzzed modestly over, but it did not resist him in the least when he split it rudely with a thumb, drawing a darling shriek from his untried conquest.

“None of your false modesty now,” he chided, good humored. “As though you weren’t playing a whore just now, cast down on your belly and waving your bottom about as you were, in the hopes some ready man would be along to ride you!”

“Oh!” cried poor Betty, moved to speech at this unjust assumption. “I wasn’t! I was only . . . I wanted . . . it _hurt_.”

“What, this sweet pink arse of yours? Yes it looks a bit tender.” And he slapped it, cruelly, to test the truth of this. Betty writhed beautifully beneath the assault, and he admired, with mounting personal warmth, the way his palm left a brighter red splotch across the thin welts of the birch. “How did this come about?”

Betty fell silent. Another, encouraging slap roused her to speech and weeping once more.

“Oh-hh! It hurts.”

“Well then tell me double quick, girl, who birched your arse and for what crime, or I shall hurt you the worse.”

“I was talking during the geography examination. I was done writing, but we aren’t meant to talk even when we are, so Miss Stevens gave me ten.”

“In my day you’d have been given twenty,” said Emerson coldly. “Education standards are slipping. Shall I give you the other ten? For being such a bold girl, and baring your bottom to me this way?”

“No-o, please!” wailed Betty, and Emerson approved her manners even under such duress.

“Well, since you are a polite girl, and you ask me so nicely, I will make you an offer: ten on your backside, to make you a better scholar, or five on some other part of you, to make you a sweeter girl whom men shall better like.”

Poor Betty fairly danced on her knees, wrestling with this problem. Emerson surmised she was intelligent enough to note he had not named the alternate location, and sure enough, the timid query emerged.

“Wh-where should you put the f-five, Sir?”

“I shan’t tell you. Men don’t like nosy women. If you are to be the sort of girl I wish to treat better than I would a poor scholar, you will choose five and leave it to my discretion to place them where they’ll suit you best. Or if you are a studious girl who wants to learn all the state capitals, I shall give you ten more on your bottom, as your Miss Stevens was clearly too tender hearted to do,”

In this he was perhaps too charitable to the character of Miss Stevens, who had plainly laid into the child’s flesh with a vengeance. But Betty, burdened with the memory of those ten every time she shifted her position, clearly deemed that five of anything, anywhere, could not be so bad as ten more there, and said so.

“Very well,” he said, “five it is. Spread your legs a bit, girl. There,” effecting the widening of her posture with his own hand, “I already like you more. Now keep still, or I will make it twenty.”

It was as well he gave this warning, because when his hand came down with a crack on her bare cuntlips Betty nearly shot right to her feet with a squeal. Only his other hand crushing down over her mouth in anticipation saved her lighting the air with a piecing, tin whistle shriek.

“Now, none of that,” he ordered. “I think Miss Stevens knew what sort of girl you are, if that is how you follow directions.” He administered a fresh slap to the same spot. “That one is not the next, but rather the first again, which you ruined. Now I will give you four more, and if you can take them properly you will be done.”

This was its own manner of lie, of course, but it served the purpose of subduing Betty long enough that he could land another slap. She was better braced against it this time, so she only yelped a very little. Emerson decided she was doing very well, all things considered, and he felt a rush of pride that his Betty could take her very first pussy spanking so well, and so soon after having her poor bottom birched.

The next slap produced just a gasp. It was a wet gasp, certainly, and chased with a whimper, but Betty kept perfectly still so Emerson rewarded her with a featherlight stroke across her pussy. The fourth slap wrung from her a muffled groan, and his rewarding pat was this time not nearly so featherlight, but firm, and concentrated at the very apex of her pussy. The fifth, and final slap, yielded the most interesting effect of all: a newer, deeper gasp, as though some part of Betty she had not even known existed had just woken up.

Emerson smiled on her doubly abused hindparts with real pleasure. What a lovely sight were Betty's bare, battered bottom and the bright pink, lightly-moistened lips of her recently spanked pussy. Was there a girl anywhere who could not be subdued in this manner? If there were, he had not met her yet. One good spanking, and they were ready to come apart in your hand. Or on your cock: it was really the gentleman's choice, in cases like this.

“There now . . . child,” he said, only just remembering not to call her by her name, as he was not supposed to know it, “that was taken very handsomely, just as a young lady should. I think men will like you very much, if you can always take a spanking like that.”

“Oh,” sobbed Betty, “oh I’ve never _had_ a spanking like that.”

“No? Well then, you should thank me for furthering your education, don’t you think?”

Betty clearly didn’t know what to think, but the memory of the gun he had threatened, plus the twenty more, worked their magic upon her and a dubious expression of gratitude was offered up.

“I don’t think you sound very sincere,” he decided, taking his cock in hand and stroking it in anticipation. He advanced on her meaningfully. “But no matter, I have a new kind of spanking to give you, and I think if you take it very well, I will not need to give you another.”

“A new—but I don’t _want_ —oh!” Betty’s jumble of protests terminated helplessly as Emerson Watts caught up the makeshift “gun” and pressed the cold, round lips of the bottle to the moist pink opening of her pussy. Leisurely, almost scientifically in his unhurried examination, he dragged the mouth of the bottle up and down her slit, every now and then stopping to give it an experimental little corkscrew, until he had worked out just exactly where the threshold to glory—and Betty Callendar’s untried cunt—could be found.

“Ahh,” he sighed, “here we go then,” and he gently bore down on the back of the bottle, staring in rapt fascination as the lips of her pussy warred with the invader, first convulsing, then wavering, then at last splitting open as nature intended so that the neat little mouth of the bottle disappeared with a gentle pop, right inside Betty Callendar.

Betty yelped, and Betty did squirm, but she already knew better than to fight back. Emerson stared in unabashed pleasure at the sight of her kneeling over the garden bench, the bright greeny-blue glass of the bottle jutting up proudly from its anchoring point right in the very seam of her.

He longed to take its place, and his cock strained its readiness, but he had promised her another spanking first and he wanted her to understand she was dealing with a man of his word. So he brought his open palm down with a slap on the base of the bottle, driving it up inside her. Betty started to wail, then actually clapped her own hands over her mouth, the better to obey his demand that she take it quietly. Enraptured by this self-effacing obedience, Emerson brought his hand down briskly two, three, four, five additional times, until the bottle was buried rather more securely, splitting her open with greater conviction all the way up to the spot where the neck of it flared out to form the base, and Betty’s answering cries had deepened to some very slow, frightened groans.

“Wh . . . what . . .”

He hardly dared to imagine that his first suspicion was true, but a tender pat of her pussy, an exploratory fondle of the very upper apex of her labia, proved that it was so. Betty Callendar, bent over a garden bench with a bottle jammed up her virgin cunt, was perilously close to true feminine pleasure.

Emerson Watts leaned forward in deep appreciation of his most long-delayed conquest. His instinct had not played him false! She was a jewel, truly, a most rare and wonderful little specimen of almost-womanhood. Oh, for the chance to debauch her properly, night after long night, tutoring her remorselessly in every art a woman ought to know, and making himself master of her in every conceivable sense of the word. He desired to see her knowledge of him, of his mastery of her person, writ clear across her face by candlelight. He wanted to drive her into the pillows of his bed until she did not even know her own name, but still screamed his as she came.

Alas, this moment of stolen pleasure would have to do, and quickly at that.

Without further ado he put his fingers to the pearl of Betty Callendar’s sex, and used his other hand to work the bottle in short, shallow, not entirely ungentle strokes. The false cock split her more gently than his own would have, but surely all the same, and Betty was not proof against her nature.

“There,” he said softly, as one would gentle a frightened mare, “there now, girl, just let it be as it should. Let me show you what you're made for.”

“I don’t,” said Betty, “I . . . what . . .”

But then it took her, poor soul, her own pleasure bearing mercilessly down on her, catching her entirely unaware and transporting her fully into womanhood before Emerson Watts had even a chance of taking her there. She cried out beautifully underneath his pressing fingers, and her cunt clutched greedily at the poor substitute of a glass bottle, when really, by rights, it should have been his cock within her. Then she slumped forward, gasping, and seemed incapable of saying anything more.

Emerson Watts freed her somewhat sulkily from impalement on the glass, noted with reluctant approval her silent, insensate, post-orgasmic sprawl, and without further ado mounted the girl and drove his cock up inside her.

It was not a wholly easy entry. He found the glass bottle had done only a little to prepare her for his entrance, and her orgasm had done most of that, but she took him with remarkably little complaint. He supposed the shock of her own pleasure had something to do with her sudden silence, and he noticed she was not entirely unprepared to try to match his rhythm, once she’d acclimated herself to the rudeness of it. It was completely beguiling, the pure instinct of her lifting that little bottom to meet his every thrust. She did weep, of course, for the size of him was nothing to readily dismiss, and he imagined his weight pressing her down into the garden bench was likely quite considerable as well. It wasn’t until he was able to stretch his body out over hers that he fully appreciated the smallness of her stature, the slightness of her limb, and the utterly futile way she tried, periodically, to pretend she still hoped to resist.

Her efforts to push him off were endearing in their ineffectiveness, and almost made him laugh. She did not try to scream or really squirm away, and although her own shock and imprisonment beneath him might have had much to do with that, he still chose to credit them in part to her good sense and natural inclination to please.

“There’s a good girl,” he grunted, laying hold of her hips and lifting them up to give himself better access. “Take it,” panting, “just - like - _that_.”

On "that" he bottomed out, and she, his Betty, impossible, wonderful creature, came _again_. Writhing, helpless, crying out as she clamped down on his cock with her newly-claimed cunt, just as he had always dreamed that she would.

The pressure building at the base of his spine was almost ungodly in its perfection. For one tantalizing moment the spectre of Betty Callendar taking his issue and swelling with his child danced in his mind's eye, but his anticipation of other parts of her had also taken root, and so with an almost agonized groan of self-denial he withdrew. He savored for a moment the sight of her cunt, that abused, pink treasure that he had claimed, before it winked sulkily shut. Then he threw the girl’s dress up over her head from behind and, keeping his hand in place on the top of her head, blindfolding her with the ruffled hem of her own gown, he hauled her around to kneel before him.

He set his fingertips under her chin, and tipped her face up to the sun. She was panting shallowly, her eyes hidden by the ruffled hem of her own inverted skirt, and he thought her confusion, the fresh ruination of her innocence still writ in the tension of her cheeks and trembling chin, was the most erotic sight he was ever likely to behold.

“Open your mouth,” he grunted, and she, blinded, dazed, doubly pleasured, complied with such sweet and perfect obedience, he came on the spot.

The ejaculate missed its mark on first shot, shooting past her head to garnish some unknown patch of lawn, but the second found its true home, and by then he had himself well introduced to the second moist pink paradise of the day. Betty gagged adorably on his cock, on his semen, and would no doubt have thought to refuse him except he pinched her nose, spent into the back of her throat, and the dear thing swallowed it all.

He drew back, gasping, and watched her wipe her mouth in confused revulsion. His cock he fumbled back into his trousers, still wet, and planned the execution of his escape.

This was the moment Emerson Watts had rehearsed in his head since he first determined that he would sneak into the Callendar garden by the back gate and finally have his way with Betty Callendar. The moment he had orchestrated so carefully in his exclamation of disgust to his housekeeper, knowing at the time that there was a very real risk Betty might be willing to betray her own secret about her scholastic embarrassment if pressed to it by such extremity of this.

“Damn,” he cried, as though just realizing something he had almost forgot, “you have nearly made me miss my train. What a selfish girl you are.”

And here he gave her a brutal shove, so as to tumble her down onto the lawn with such force that she was unlikely to immediately rebound and gather her wits enough to look around at him.

This way, by the time Betty Callendar was able to pick herself up off the lawn, make some vain pretense at covering her ruined modesty and look around for some glimpse of her assailant, he was already gone. Only the white picket fence was left to creak in the wind, as though somebody had not long since passed through.

* * *

The details were, of necessity, carefully obscured, but it was not yet nightfall before all neighbors understood some great rudeness had been visited on poor Betty Callendar in her own garden. A hue and cry went up, and the description of a traveling man seen in the area was widely circulated as a person wanted for questioning in the matter, but no trace of the man was ever found.

Eventually the matter was considered better laid to rest, and the townsfolk concurred that the best possible strategy would be to move on. For, after all, no great profit could be got by prolonging focus on such unpleasantness, and events of that nature were not the type of thing considered suitable for dwelling on by such fine, upstanding folk.


End file.
